


Betrayed

by BakerKeen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Past, Hand Jobs, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Assault, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4297371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to Prompting Meme: John did something incredibly stupid, reckless, andor horrible in his youth or a few years before meeting Sherlock (or while Sherlock was 'away'). Like very very not good thing. Sherlock is now fighting against morals he DOES in fact have and the fact that John is now obviously a good man . He does want to help his friend, is planning on it, can't stand to see John arrested but at the same time...he isn't as amoral as he thinks he is and he can't help but think John deserves it.</p><p>Prompt here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75309.html?thread=259963693#cmt259963693</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confusion

Sherlock sprung from the taxi, popping his collar and hollering, “Come on, John!” The doctor muttered something about paying the fare ( _tedious!_ ) and caught up to his long strides just as he reached the crime scene tape. Already he was taking in the scene with rapidfire observations. “I googled the owners on the way. They own a spa nearby.” He tilted his head slightly, seeming to take in the paint on the garden fence. “Appears that business isn’t booming quite as well as it once was. Loads of positive reviews, then they had a poor rating from the health inspectors. Business has been flagging a bit since then. “  


John pushed open the garden gate, heading toward where the apparent owners were standing, looking distraught as Anderson examined the body several feet away. “You think that has something to do with the victim? Maybe they borrowed money from the wrong person.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes as they walked up to the victim. “Utterly _brilliant_ , John. Does this look like the work of the mafia or a bookie? Check his body, tell me what you see.”  


John knelt, examining the body as Sherlock examined everything else. The victim was a hobby gardener, but that was not his job in the home. He was a personal trainer, Pilates. _What was he doing in the back garden?_ Sherlock looked up from the body, hoping to find some clues as to his purpose here, when his eyes landed on the owners. The taller of the two men was standing, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, staring directly at John. He recognized him, or thought he did, and whatever the connection between them, it was unpleasant, because now he was whispering furiously at his husband and they were both staring at him in shock. Anderson was standing up from his position beside John, about to go talk to the couple, and they looked up at him with interest. The taller of the man was already opening his mouth furiously –  


“—Anderson, you babbling idiot, _plainly_ we can not infer the cause of death until we have studied the soil.”  
Anderson blinked at him a few times, and out of the corner of his eye he could see John look up at him in curiosity. “The soil has nothing to do with it, Sherlock.” John opened his mouth, already starting to nod his agreement.  


Sherlock huffed dramatically. “What, and all that dirt under his fingernails just appeared there on its own? There’s no possible correlation between what’s in that dirt and his death? The nails are ragged; he chews them. Since there’s no external wound, we can certainly not rule out the possibility that whatever killed him was ingested through the soil, nor can we not rule out the possibility that that soil is THIS soil until you pretend to be competent for once and go get the bloody evidence collection kits, which I see you have forgotten again.” Anderson reddened. “Well don’t rush, we all know that evidence is best collected as slowly as possible following a crime.”  


Anderson scooted away and John and Sherlock were more or less alone with the owners in the garden again; Donovan and Lestrade were talking animatedly over by the crime tape now but were not within earshot . John looked up at Sherlock quizzically and he flicked his eyes quickly at the owners in warning. John looked up and froze.  


The taller of the men -- Vincent, according to their website -- had locked eyes with John. “It _is_ you. What in the bloody hell are you doing on my property? I have a good mind to call …” His voice trailed off and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow ironically. “Well, _are_ you police?” he demanded.  


John seemed unable to speak, so Sherlock interjected smoothly, reaching down to grasp John by the elbow and pull him off the ground. John seemed a bit unsteady, so he held on. “We’re not police. I’m consulting on the case as a detective. Sherlock Holmes. I daresay you know my partner.”  


The man’s eyes slid to Sherlock’s hand on John’s elbow and laughed incredulously. “His _partner_?? Oh, this is rich. I suppose you’ve worked past that self-loathing in the past 15 years.”  


Sherlock studied the man’s face and something very improbable clicked into place. “We are not here to discuss personal matters between you and my partner. Clearly your personal trainer has been poisoned. Anderson – God help you – will arrange for all the appropriate evidence collection. I’ll see that all the relevant information gets to DI Lestrade.”  


“Wait a mo—!”  
“Good day, gentlemen,” Sherlock said firmly, then more quietly, “Come, John.” He tugged on his elbow and walked as quickly as possible back to the street. “Poison!” he shouted over his shoulder at Lestrade as a taxi pulled up to them. “Don’t know how, yet. Will get the details to you soon.” He shoved John inside and ducked in after him before anyone had time to respond. He could see Lestrade gesturing wildly at them as the car pulled away, and he sighed with relief.  


John’s eyes were wide, and a bit wetter than normal, and his hands were trembling slightly. He noticed and folded them together, cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sherlock.” Otherwise, the men sat in tense silence until they arrived at Baker St.


	2. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets the whole story.

When they arrived at the flat, John went directly to his room and closed the door without speaking a word. Shucking his coat and shoes, Sherlock poured himself a whisky and settled down to John’s computer. An hour and another whisky or two later, he pulled at his hair in frustration and slammed the laptop shut.  


When Sherlock flung open the door to John’s room, he found him sitting on the bed, curled in a ball against the headboard. “I don’t bloody care about your _feelings_ , John. Explain this to me.” He threw the printed pages – news articles and a few emails – on the bed in front of him.  


John took a deep breath and forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye. “Looks to me like you’ve already figured it out.”  


Sherlock began pacing the room. “No, I haven’t. I have not yet deduced why my best friend, someone I thought I knew, could possibly have harassed and _beaten_ a gay man for being gay. There is no universe in which that makes any bloody sense. Your sister is a lesbian, for god’s sake. It’s all wrong!”  


John eyed him warily, sadly. “Sherlock, this is a part of my past that I’m quite ashamed of. Do we really need to discuss this? Why does it matter?”  


Sherlock stilled for a moment, not breathing, and turned slowly to face him. His voice dropped. “You bloody well know why it matters to me. Why it’s personally relevant.” They had never discussed it openly, but John knew, and Sherlock knew he knew. Thought he hadn’t cared. Thought …  


John sneered. “I thought it ‘wasn’t your area’?”  


Sherlock spat back, “And I thought it was all ‘fine’, regardless?” He glared down at John. “Don’t patronize me. I deserve an answer, even if I am a _homo_.” They both flinched at the word. “Perhaps you’d like to emblazen it on my door, as well. I'm sure Raz could recommend the correct spray-paint so it doesn't wash off so easily this time around.” Unwelcome tears sprung to Sherlock’s eyes and he resumed his pacing, blinking them back and swallowing the sob that was attempting to escape.  


A long silence followed, but Sherlock sensed that John was working himself up to the inevitable explanation. After a few shaky breaths, John finally spoke. “You know Harry had to leave home when she came out, right?” Sherlock nodded, not stopping his movement or looking directly at John. “Well, actually, she left before Dad found out. Knew it wasn’t safe to tell him before she left. He was drinking so much then and sometimes …” He swallowed, shot a glance at Sherlock’s stony face. _Get to the point_ , it seemed to say. “I was in Uni, drinking a lot myself; sometimes with my teammates, sometimes with Dad. I was just starting to realize that the shit he was spouting off was not normal. The rugby guys would sometimes tease about so-and-so being a poof or whatever, but not … not the kind of shit Dad would say.”  


Sherlock didn’t look at him, just kept pacing and occasionally squeezing his eyes shut. John swallowed and continued. “One day my Dad and I were out, and I was less spectacularly drunk than he was, so I drove us home. And I …” He swallowed again, took a big breath. “I swerved, hit someone. A homeless man. He _died_.” His voice cracked on that last word.  


Sherlock sat down then, on the chair opposite John’s bed, fingers steepled at his mouth. “Go on,” he said, quietly.  


Another steadying breath. “I was studying to be a doctor, Sherlock. I couldn’t … Dad knew I couldn’t be a doctor with that on my record. So he said that it’d been him, and he was charged with another DUI and a few other things. He did a short stint in lockup, paid a ton of fines. He never told anyone.” He dropped his gaze to his hands, afraid to look up and see Sherlock’s face. “Anyway, things were weird with my Dad after that. He would halfway mention it around other people, always threatening me with what could happen if people found out. One day shortly after he got out of lockup, he told me that I needed to get this –” He paused, deciding how much to edit. “—gay business owner out of the neighborhood where he worked. Business was slow and he got it in his head that it was because no one wanted to come there with the ‘queer store’ two doors down. Told me I had to do it.”  


Now that he’d started explaining, he seemed unable to stop; Sherlock thought that he’d probably never spoken of any of this to anyone. “So I did. I smashed in his shop window and spraypainted slurs on his door, but he didn’t leave. Actually, he ended up with more business because of the news coverage.” He smiled ruefully. “Dad wasn’t pleased, said I hadn’t done enough. So I …” He finally fell silent. “Well, you read the reports.”  


Sherlock leaned in. “Finish,” he demanded. “I want to hear you say it.”  


“I threatened him and beat him up. Called him words I would never use now, told him that he wasn’t welcome in the neighborhood anymore, and smashed his face in.” He forced himself to look up and see Sherlock’s reaction. The only word he could find to describe his face was _betrayed_. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  


Sherlock’s eyebrows shot so far up that John feared they would never descend properly again. “You’re apologizing to _me_??!? These reports say the attacker was never identified. So you’ve never had _any_ repercussions for any of this?”  


John shook his head, eyes swimming. “No. My dad was _proud_ of me,” he spat out, as though the word tasted bad. “Never gave me much trouble after that, and I stopped going home when I could possibly avoid it. Then he died a few years later and I moved on with my life.”  


Sherlock felt a bubble of revulsion twisting his stomach, and cursed the 3rd glass of whisky for the sentiment that was spilling out of him. “Meanwhile, Vincent, an actual human, has had to live with humiliation, fear, and uneven cheekbones for the last 15 years. All so you could live out your dream of being a bloody doctor and getting yourself blown up in Afghanistan.” Sherlock glared at him. “And that’s what you’ll do again, of course. Protect your career and your reputation.”  


John looked up at him helplessly. “Sherlock, it was 15 years ago. I’m not going to make excuses about how I was young and stupid, but I’m not the person I was at 21. You know that’s not who I am anymore.” He swallowed, and looked down, unable to ask the question out loud.  


Sherlock sat back, looking at John with incredulity; he felt ill. “You want my help. Well, there’s not much to do, is there? No one who knows you now would believe you capable of this anyway. So all there is to do is to do what you’ve always done, and lie about it. Make Vincent look stupid, plead ignorance, and everyone will think it’s just a case of mistaken identity. You’ll continue to ‘get on with your life’, Vincent will get to live the joy of being victimized all over again, and I’ll finally experience the exquisite self-hatred that comes with protecting a homophobic nut from the consequences he richly deserves.”  


John flinched; Sherlock held his gaze. “I don’t want to see you go to jail, John. So yes, I will help you. But this … I would not have thought you capable. I’ve never felt anything less than pride when someone has mistakenly thought we were a couple, because I’ve always known you to be a good man. You help people; you help me. I knew your father was an abusive arsehole, and I know many people have difficulty getting through that without making mistakes of their own. But _this_ –” He gestured at the news articles – “Is well beyond my reckoning.”  


John dropped his gaze, tears in his eyes. “Believe me, I wish more than anything that I could go back and relive that whole year.”  


Sherlock stood and strode to the door. The last thing he said before sweeping out of the room was, “You are most certainly not the only one.”


	3. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade confronts John, and Sherlock covers for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a tag for a reference to a past sexual assault. It's nothing graphic, but could be triggering for the wrong reader.

"They're here," Sherlock told John. "Do hold it together until they leave." John rolled his eyes, and both men squared their shoulders before leaving the bedroom. John set to work making tea and Sherlock sat in his chair, waiting with what have passed for patience to anyone but John. 

Lestrade rolled his eyes and invited Vincent to sit, since Sherlock had neglected to. To the room at large, he said, "Hope it's OK that I brought him here; figured your address was public knowledge anyway." He shot a fleeting glance at Sherlock that said, _This guy is off his rocker, and I want to keep him away from the Yard so Donovan and Anderson don't catch wind._

Sherlock nodded his gratitude and assent, and John brought round the tray of tea. "Of course. Tea?" Lestrade doctored his cup eagerly, and John took a cup simply to have something to put in his hands; he certainly didn't need the caffeine. Vincent sat stonily, looking as though he would sooner drink his own urine. Lestrade seemed to be embarrassed to be there, and made polite chitchat with John for a moment before the soldier finally decided to jump in. "So, what seems to be the problem?"

Vincent's eyebrows shot up, already incredulous. "What seems to be the _problem_??!?!? You know exactly why we're here."

Lestrade held out a cautioning hand to Vincent, who fell silent, and turned an apologetic face to John. "Mr. Tucker believes he recognizes you from an attack he suffered approximately 15 years ago." 

John squinted as though trying to recognize his face. "Fifteen years ago, I was at Uni, and I certainly threw a few punches. Was there a girl involved?" Vincent recoiled as though he'd been struck, and John stiffened, realizing that it sounded like he was mocking his sexuality, and Sherlock intervened. 

"Don't be obtuse, John. You can see that his zygoma are misaligned; at least one of them has been broken, along with his nose and possibly his eye socket. You're a doctor, for God's sake. Clearly this was not some drunken fistfight over a pub disagreement. And he was with his _husband_ when we met him just yesterday. Someone beat him very badly. He would've been hospitalized and probably required surgery, and you remind him of his attacker.Do try to keep up." He held the man's gaze, wishing he could work an apology into it but knowing he musn't. 

Vincent eyed Sherlock with contempt. "He doesn't _remind_ me of my attacker, it's him. You know all that because _he_ told you. No one could possibly look at my face and tell all that."

Lestrade interrupted. "Actually, he does it all the time. You'll tie your shoes and he'll know that you've just been to the dentist and your wife is cheating on you with your accountant." Vincent glared at Lestrade as though he was insane, but the man merely shrugged in response. "Bit annoying, actually, but dead useful in a case. He's nearly always right."

Sherlock nodded his head at Vincent in acknowledgement. "I researched you, naturally. I research all my clients. So I have read the articles and that gave me some of the information; the rest I got from observing you." Hating himself for it, he colored his voice with a touch of incredulity. "You believe my colleague, a decorated Army veteran and a doctor, viciously attacked you 15 years ago because of your sexuality."

Vincent glared down at Sherlock, seeming to debate whether Sherlock believed what he was saying. "You know how it is, half the guys who bullied us as teenagers turned out to be gay themselves. Just because you two are a couple doesn't mean --" 

"We are not a couple," Sherlock said firmly, correcting someone for the first time. Lestrade turned to observe him, openly curious about Sherlock's sudden willingness to confirm or deny the details of his relationship with the doctor. "Just colleagues. Work partners." 

"Flatmates," Vincent shot back.

"Just so," confirmed Sherlock, keeping the misery off of his face and out of his voice. "John isn't gay. We are not together." It felt like a knife was twisting in his belly as he said it, but it was true. There had never been anything romantic between them, and he wanted to be sure, for once, that everyone was clear on that point. Whatever could have happened before was gone now; something had broken between them and Sherlock didn't see a way for them to find their way back that far. _Mycroft was right about John all along_ , Sherlock thought ruefully. _One musn't get too involved. You never know when your best friend will turn out to have a past life as a bigoted maniac._

Vincent sat back. "So why are you covering for him, if you're not together?" Sherlock's mouth opened to retort when Vincent got a look of amusement on his face. "He's not gay, but you are. You're in love with him and you want to protect him." The air had been sucked out of the room; no one spoke or breathed for several long moments as all three men tried to think of a way to laugh this off, preserve Sherlock's dignity with a kind lie. Vincent didn't give them a chance. "I was wrong. He's not the self-loathing one; you are. You ought to be ashamed."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something clever, but nothing came out. The truth was that he _was_ ashamed. Although he'd endured few instances of harassment over his sexuality -- his personality seemed to offend people on a much grander scale -- it had happened a few times. Once, the perpetrator had even tried to get handsy with him, shoved him against a wall and moved to yank at his belt buckle. _"I bet this homo has a tiny dick, what do you guys think?"_ and Sherlock remembered the shot of fear that ran through him before he broke the man's wrist and knocked out the friend who rushed to defend him. The rest of them seemed to decide to leave the _homo_ alone since he was actually able to stand up for himself. Defending someone who preyed on vulnerable people for being different left a foul taste in his mouth, even when that someone was John. _Especially_ when it was John, whose character he had never thought to question. 

Lestrade found his voice first. "You're barking up the wrong tree, mate. As Sherlock likes to remind us, he's a high-functioning sociopath; he doesn't feel shame." It was a bit not good, but it got them out of the moment. "Mr. Tucker, I genuinely don't believe there's any evidence that Dr. Watson is your attacker. And as the statute of limitations has passed on pressing charges, I'm afraid we can't reopen your case. I'm very sorry." Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding as relief washed over him. There was a lot of damage Vincent could do to John without pressing charges, of course, but without an investigation (or the help of Sherlock Holmes), nothing was likely to come to light. For better or worse, John was safe.

The doctor leaned forward; Vincent recoiled slightly, leaning toward Lestrade. He swallowed and looked Vincent in the eye, putting as much sincerity in to his statement as possible. "I'm so, so sorry about what happened to you, Mr. Tucker. I know you must have been terrified and that you've probably never felt totally safe since. The maniac who attacked you deserves worse than prison. He deserves to be lonely and miserable, to be suffer for what he's done, to be shot. Wherever he is, I hope the truth of what he did has eaten at him for the past 15 years and that he has never felt safe, either."

Everyone looked at John with curiosity. "That's not justice," Vincent countered after a long moment. 

"No," John allowed. "It's not. But I feel confident that karma can do a worse number on this lunatic than the Yard would have ever been allowed to."


	4. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sherlock and John continue to battle it out and figure out what's left for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violin music contained in this chapter:  
> [Johann Sebastian Bach - Chaconne, Partita No. 2 BWV 1004](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqA3qQMKueA)
> 
> [I'm imagining that Sherlock is as masterful at playing violin as he is at everything else he puts his mind to. If he can play this well, he could probably play professionally. It's an incredible piece of music.]
> 
> ********************

When they were alone again, Sherlock glowered at John as he watched him sink back into his chair. "Quite a speech you made at the end."

John tipped his head, surprised at the venom. "I meant every word."

Sherlock's body was wound tight with tension; he could feel the rage beginning bubble in his belly again, and he tried to contain it but he could feel his voice rising. "You can't just dismiss that man's suffering because you have also had a few hard times, John! What has happened to you has been the _direct result_ of choices you have made. They are not punishments that absolve you of what you've done."

The doctor sat back, crossing his arms. "I'm not looking for absolution, but my suffering has a purpose. I look at all I've been through and I think, _this_ is what happens to people who do bad things." 

Sherlock uncrossed his legs, leaning forward and grabbing his head in frustration. "There is _no such thing as karma_ , John. Bad things happen to you because you like danger. You could have started a nice quiet practice when you became a doctor, and treated high blood pressure and step throat for the rest of your life. You chose to go to war, instead. _You_ chose." 

John bristled. "I did all of this so I could be a doctor. Don't you think I have an obligation to use that gift and help people the best I can? Even if that means putting myself in danger?" 

Sherlock stilled, shock and disappointment apparent in his hushed voice. "Christ, listen to you bargaining, far worse than I ever did when I was using. Do you even hear yourself? Oh, you're perfectly self-sacrificing when it dovetails with your own ambitions. You've done an absolutely _beautiful_ job of justifying to yourself your choice to dodge real consequences. Overcoming adversity doesn't negate what you did. Vincent Tucker doesn't get to choose to not live with _his_ consequences of being terrorized by you." He shook his head, confusion and defeat etched on his face. "Remembering that a victim is a real person is _my_ struggle. You're constantly challenging me to find my humanity, and now you've lost yours." 

John looked scared all of a sudden; more scared than he had when Sherlock had been shouting at him. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock's rage had cracked him in two, and all of it, his rage, and love, and every other bloody _sentiment_ , threatened to consume him. "I don't want anything from you, John." Suddenly, the room was too much. Sherlock closed his eyes and withdrew inside himself. 

Usually, when Sherlock used his Mind Palace as an escape, he liked to go into the room where he kept his unsolved cases. Occupying his mind, solving puzzles, was both soothing and invigorating. But today, when he went in that room, he found that he couldn’t focus his mind, couldn’t think properly. It reminded him of the times he had smoked marijuana; it made his brain soft and slow, like molasses on bread. He couldn’t solve a crime in this state. All he could think about was John’s betrayal, and how bloody awful he felt. So he went into John’s room and created an empty closet. He hung a picture of the news article there, the one that showed a shattered and graffitied storefront. He downloaded a video of John telling him all about it to a tablet and, unable to watch it again, stuffed it in a drawer along with the goading emails from his father and a picture of Vincent Tucker’s face. All but fleeing the closet, he burst into John’s room and reminded himself that this was all real, too, but also ultimately irrelevant. He couldn’t delete the contents of that closet. Wouldn’t, because Vincent had been right; he would do anything for John Watson. And for what? The cost was too high. 

Sherlock walked out of the room and, because he felt like a bit of a wallow and that was allowed in here, visited the room where he kept the memories off all the times he’d been bullied or terrorized for being himself. Mycroft, dangling him out of a window, glee on his face. The handsy fellow at the pub. A grammar school teacher, telling him he was stupid and weird and that he was never going to amount to anything. Countless people calling him a freak. Members of the rowing team holding his head underwater until he stopped flailing. And on, and on, and on. Sherlock felt himself sinking under the weight of all the hatred and fear in the room, and when he could hardly move anymore, he dragged himself out, closing the door. He called Redbeard and collapsed on the floor in a long sob, feeling the dog laying down and nuzzling his face to comfort him. Slowly, slowly, he allowed all of the rage and pain to be wrung out of him in tears, wetting a clump of the Irish setter's fur. The dog licked his face and Sherlock sat up, petting him warmly, before finding a pair of scissors and clipping a lock of his tear-dampened fur. He fought the urge to set fire to it. _No, I must be able to remember this._ So instead, he went back to John's room, opened the closet, and set the fur on top of the dresser that contained all the other things he wished to put away for awhile. This used to make him anxious, leaving things in his Mind Palace, letting things go unresolved. But now, it was a comfort; he knew he could always find his way back here if he needed to.

When Sherlock emerged, he felt drained and tired, but lighter. His mind didn’t feel quite normal yet -- a dull ache of sadness still sat in his chest and slowed his whole body down -- but it was certainly much clearer than it had been the past two days. He was just debating going back inside to work on some cold cases when his phone chirped. 

      _Decided it would be best if I visited Harry for a couple of days. Please don't mention the irony. JW_

      _She's on a bender. Do enjoy that. SH_

      _Christ, again? JW_

Sherlock smirked, then stood to retrieve his violin. He plinked at the strings, tuning, thinking. He played the beginning notes of _Chaconne_ and felt a bit of the sadness leach from him. That things with John would never be what they were, or weren't, as the case may be, was obvious. Sherlock had been foolish and sentimental and it had taken Hiroshima for him to recognize it. He couldn't -- _wouldn't_ \-- go back to pining after him. It had been that sentiment that had blinded him to what John really was. Yes, he was kind and brave and good, but he was also dark and dangerous. His bow began to skip across the strings, and Sherlock's thoughts danced along with the music. There had been signs that John had a darker side to him, but he'd overlooked them. The reticence to discuss Harry's coming out; shooting a man to protect him when they hardly knew each other; not seeming to feel much conflict over killing a man. That was not normal. That was something _Sherlock_ would do, shoot a man without remorse. It didn't fit with the rest of what he'd assumed about John, but he'd dismissed it because he wanted to believe in his goodness, and he was grateful that the man had saved his life. _He's a soldier, it's his training. Brilliant, actually_ , he'd thought. But John was a doctor, a medic, a healer. His job had never been to kill.

His bow slowed again, and Sherlock's thoughts transitioned from rapid-fire dance to dizzy swirl. There was a lot of virtue in John and a certain _utility_. He didn't want to lose him as a colleague; he rarely observed anything useful, but sometimes he would say the wrong thing and, in correcting him, Sherlock would set off toward the true answer. But that was true of Lestrade, as well. Sherlock dug into a note, trying to pour his confusion into it, clear his mind. He had told John that he always felt challenged by him to find his humanity, and that was true. Most of the time he detached himself from his cases and it was exceedingly rare that emotions helped him solve things any faster. But John often steered him on course when he'd forgotten that other people have their own thoughts and feelings, and that was OK, even when their thoughts were stupid and their feelings were illogical. People liked him more when John was around, tempering him and smoothing things over. He didn't particularly care what most people thought about him -- or at least, it was a far distant second in importance compared to honesty -- but it made The Work simpler when people weren't constantly shouting at him or getting in his way. As he played the final notes, Sherlock thought about honesty. _I prefer having him near to being alone, and that part hasn't changed._ There it was. Illogical and sentimental, but the truth. John understood Sherlock. Working with him was comfortable, and beneficial, and what he liked. He could walk away, go back to doing the work with his skull for a sounding board, but it would be a loss. Things wouldn't be the same, but they could still _be_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Iwantthatcoat for betaing this for me! 
> 
> Be sure to leave me some feedback!


	5. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns and they find their equilibrium again.

A few days later, Sherlock came home from a case to find a kettle of tea already steeping, apples and bananas in the fruit basket, and John's laptop on the table by the window. His stomach clenched, but he only hesitated for a moment before he strode in the door. After pouring himself a cup of tea, he sat down in front of John's laptop, smirked at the updated password ( _Why does he bother?_ ) and two guesses later, he was in. He'd gotten an email confirmation for an appointment with Ella, read a load of accounts from victims of hate crimes, and written a draft entry to his blog about how he'd bollocksed things up with Sherlock and was leaving Baker Street. The clench on his stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He could hear John pacing in his room. _He knows I'm home. Hopes I'm snooping on his computer so he doesn't have to tell me himself._ He heard a light thump in time with the footsteps and mentally started. _His limp is back, then._ Sherlock sniffed, listened some more, thought about the limp's significance. He snapped the laptop shut, snagged a text off the bookshelf, and settled into his chair with his tea to distract himself while he waited. 

After five more minutes of pacing, John paused at the door for a moment and then thumped his way downstairs. He fiddled with the tea, spending an inordinate amount of time doctoring his cup before finally heading over to the living area. After adjusting his cane a few times, he seemed to work up the nerve to speak. "Sherlock, look --" 

Sherlock didn't look up from his book. "I've already read your blog post, John, so you can stop all this insufferable pondering about what to say." 

"Right," John said. "So you already kn-- why on Earth are you reading the _Kama Sutra_?" 

_Am I?_ His eyes focused on the page in front of him, featuring a couple in the lotus position. "Case." John quirked his eyes doubtfully, and Sherlock looked up. "Of course it's for a case. How else do you propose I show that the victim's position proves he couldn't have died during intercourse?" 

John closed his eyes for a second. "Sex, Sherlock. Just call it sex." 

"Imprecise," Sherlock muttered, turning his eyes back toward the book. "It's your choice, but moving out is illogical." He paused for a moment and John quirked a questioning eyebrow at him. "It's an ideal arrangement." 

John huffed out a half-laugh. "It _was_ an ideal arrangement. Now my flatmate can hardly stand to look at me." He shuffled a bit. "I don't think I can stay here with the constant ... chill." 

"Don't be stupid, John. If you left, you'd have to find a flat you could afford on your own, which would mean leaving London, or a new flatmate, which you know is easier said than done. The clinic and St. Barts are right here. The Work is here. You need a place to stay and we both need flatmates. Just because we're not as ..." he searched for the right word, "... _chummy_ as we used to be doesn't mean we can't harmoniously share a flat. Plenty of people who aren't friends make these types of arrangements." 

John flinched, adjusted his cane. "But do you see how it might be a bit difficult to see someone all the time when you've had a falling out?" 

Sherlock peered up at John. "No." Then, after a moment. "I imagine I will put the same amount of thought toward you whether or not you're in my presence." He looked back down at his book. "If you'd rather not see me, that's fine. Certainly wouldn't be the first time you've hidden from your actions." 

John stayed, of course. He still bought the milk, and made the tea, and they tiptoed around each other, each trying to find new boundaries. 

Sherlock took cases, attempted to shutter his emotions from John, and even went on an absolutely wretched date with an attorney who'd chatted him up at a crime screen. In the first five minutes, Sherlock had mentioned being a violinist, and the man had replied that he had a fondness for Wagner. Sherlock had flicked his eyes over him once before thoroughly dismantling him. The date was over before their coffee had cooled. Sherlock tried not to think about the fact that John didn't know enough about classical music to have bad taste in it, or that he would've been amazed to have seen Sherlock deduce the man's past work as a stripper from the way he sat at the table. 

When crime scenes became needlessly tense again, and Lestrade began asking pointed questions about John's absence, Sherlock invited him on a few cases. Here, things were nearly normal again; they were stiff with each other at first, but Sherlock found himself getting lost in the cases and they fell into their familiar groove without really meaning to. Afterward, they would return to the flat, and Sherlock would work on experiments while John watched crap telly, and they mostly ignored each other, although Sherlock often felt John's gaze when he was bent over his microscope. 

Of course, Sherlock could tell that John was seeing quite a lot of Ella again. Every Monday and Thursday, he left the flat looking vaguely uncomfortable and returned, 94 minutes later, looking a bit more relaxed, a bit drained. He spent a lot of time writing by hand in a journal. Apparently, John had given up on creating a satisfactory passcode and was sticking steadfastly to hard copies, which, to Sherlock's frustration, he seemed to keep on him at all times. He glared inwardly, reminding himself that the inner workings of John Watson's mind were no longer his mystery to solve. 

It was all working about as well as could be expected, with the two living distantly from each other in close quarters. Neither was exactly happy, but both were getting on with life. 

About a month into their new arrangement, John had left to see Ella and not returned afterward. Sherlock was checking on his phone to see if there were reports of disruptions on the tube when a message flashed on his screen. 

      _Is John serious about this??? GL_

Sherlock thought for a moment, considering the reasons John would go to Lestrade in his absence. Perhaps he was telling Lestrade not to call him for cases anymore; maybe he really was moving out this time. He felt his heart skip and clamped down on the emotion immediately. 

      _I can't answer your questions when your imprecision rises to the level of incoherence. I'm a detective, not a mind reader. SH_

Hardly 30 seconds passed. 

       _He's here giving a statement about Tucker. Says it was him. GL_

He shot up in his chair as though he'd been actually, literally shocked. 

      _Yes. He's serious. SH_  


For the first time in over a month, Sherlock and John had a lot to talk about. 

\-----------

When he came home, John found Sherlock on his computer. "That is _supposed_ to be private, Sherlock. Just because you are capable of getting into it doesn't mean you should."

Sherlock ignored that and openly studied him for the first time since their falling out. "You've been researching statutes of limitation and how to file formal complaints with the General Medical Counsel." John nodded his head once in affirmation and waited patiently. "You gave a statement to Lestrade accepting responsibility for the attack on Vincent Tucker. Why would you do that? You must know how likely it is that you'll lose your medical license."

John toed off his shoes, hung his jacket, and plopped down in his chair. "Because you were quite right. I've been avoiding this for 15 years and there's no other way to even come close to making things right. Not that I can erase what I did, but perhaps Vincent will finally have a little bit of peace from knowing that the person who hurt him has been found and that the truth is out."

Sherlock canted his head, brow furrowed. "But, if you can't practice medicine --"

John interrupted swiftly. "--I'll tell you what I told Lestrade. I have given this a lot of thought, and my medical degree is not more important than all the people I hurt and scared. It wasn't just Vincent, was it? You said that I 'terrorized' him, but the truth is that you can't terrorize one person. I terrorized him, and Harry, and you, and every other gay person in London." Sherlock arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth to protest. "No," John said firmly. "Let me finish. You didn't see your face when you found out what I'd done. I have seen Sally call you a freak at least a dozen times. You get told to fuck off just about daily. Someone, somewhere along the way, called you a sociopath and you accepted that as fact. I've never seen you react to any of that with even a fraction of what I saw on your face when you saw just a _picture_ of what I did. Me, not my father. He told me to scare him off, not to beat the man within an inch of his life. I was angry and he was vulnerable and I vented all of it out on him. It was cowardly, and vicious, and an act of terrorism. So, no, I'm not worried about my fucking _medical license_."

Sherlock pierced John with such scrutiny -- even for Sherlock -- that John began to squirm a bit. After a long moment, he said, "You really mean all that. It's not a speech this time."

John nodded. "I owe you an apology, Sherlock. I wish I could say that when I kept it from you, I was trying to protect your feelings, because I never wanted to hurt you. But really, I was just protecting myself, because I never wanted you, of all people, to know what I truly was back then."

"Me of all people," Sherlock snarked. "Are Harry and I the _only_ gay people you know?"

"No, god no, that's not what I mean," John said in a rush. "It's just, you know." Sherlock held his gaze questioningly, and John faltered. "You-you're my best friend, and that's important to me."

Sherlock regarded John, who quickly looked away. _Cheeks flushed, avoiding eye contact, shifting his weight. Embarrassed? No, not embarrassed. Nervous I'll deduce his thoughts. 'You, of all people.' Of all people. Of all people._ His eyes came into a laser-sharp focus and his breath caught in his throat. "John," he said, commandingly. Almost against his will, John looked at him, miserably, knowing that for Sherlock the truth might as well have been lit up in a neon sign. "Vincent was right. About all of it," he marveled, disbelief plain in his voice. 

John hesitated. This was his last chance. If he laughed it off, the moment would pass and they would let it even if they both know the truth. He carded a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I never ... I always favored women. Maybe I'd appreciate the way a man looks once and again, but it never lasted. I admire you, Sherlock," John said softly. "You're witty and sarcastic and I can't even fathom how your brain works. And the more I grew to like you, the more my appreciation morphed into attraction and the attraction morphed into ... more." He swallowed, looking like he wished he was anywhere else. "And I know that once you found out what I did to Vincent, it shut the door on whatever was between us." He stood, looking agitated, eyes darting toward the stairs. "If there was ever anything there at all." He blinked against the moisture in his eyes and moved to flee.

Sherlock sprang out of his chair, grabbing John by the elbow. _Don't think, just act._ He turned John toward him, keeping a reassuring grip on his elbow while sliding his other hand up to cradle his head. John rested their foreheads together, taking raggedy breaths while Sherlock worried a spot behind his ear. Pulling away a few inches, he tipped John’s head back, forcing him to make eye contact. Sherlock’s chest tightened and he reached up with his other hand, wiping the moisture away with his thumb. Then, staring deeply into John’s eyes, wanting to observe everything, he closed the distance between them. 

At first, the kisses were soft, tentative, just brushes against John's lips as he memorized their firmness, the sensation of John's soft breaths on his face, the spicy musk of his aftershave. From this close, he could finally determine the exact color of john's eyes -- golden-brown near the pupils and blue around the edges. They were brighter than normal just now, from the tears. He told himself to go slowly, reminded himself that John was feeling vulnerable and that there were Rules about that. Then John opened his mouth, inviting Sherlock in, and he couldn’t resist the rush he felt coursing through him. The kiss turned into something slow and deep; Sherlock seemed to be trying to pour his soul into John, and John was happy to take it. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and pulled his body closer, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders as John clutched at him, still slightly trembling. 

Sherlock pulled John close as he shuffled backwards, not stopping until the couch hit the backs of his legs and they tumbled onto it. John spread his thighs wide so he could burrow against him, leaning in to kiss at Sherlock's ear for maximum closeness. A white-hot spike of desire shot through him, stalling his breath, and John smiled against him. The lips were replaced with teeth, grazing along the shell of his ear and raising goosebumps all along his neck. Sherlock ran his fingertips lightly up and down the small of John's back, relishing the little squirms as he brushed sensitive spots. A heat spread through Sherlock's belly as John's grazing turned into nipping. Sherlock turned his head to crush his mouth against John's, licking into his mouth urgently before catching a lip between his teeth and biting his way across John's jaw and down his neck. John let out a quiet moan and canted his hips forward for friction as Sherlock sucked a kiss to his pulsepoint. 

As Sherlock worked his way down John's neck, he tugged at his shirt buttons, smoothing his hands over the solid skin of his shoulders as he pushed it off. John shivered when Sherlock nibbled on his collarbone as he ran his nails gently down his back, not stopping until his hands rested on his bum. He pulled firmly, thrusting them together, and smiled; both were mostly hard. Sherlock rocked his hips gently, pushing them together as John faltered in his attempts to kiss Sherlock again. Sherlock cupped John's face, pulled him in for a furious kiss, and slowly cascaded his finger's down his chest. John scooted back a bit, giving Sherlock more room, and allowing Sherlock to break away as he reached John's navel. "Alright?" he asked, fingering John's belt. 

"God, yes," John breathed, and after Sherlock had worked his jeans open, he stood up to step out of them. He locked eyes with Sherlock, looking uncertain, and Sherlock dropped his eyes to the bulge in his pants, nodding. John's fingers fumbled at his own waistband for a moment and he tripped over his pants a bit, but he got them off and scrambled back in Sherlock's lap. 

Sherlock smiled affectionately and pulled him back in for another kiss, resting his hands on John's hips, mastering his impulse to devour the man. "You sure?" he asked. Taking sexual advantage of someone who was feeling vulnerable was a Very Bad Thing; it had to be John's decision. He slid a hand down John's thigh to grab under his knee.

"I know you're taking my pulse, Sherlock." John slid his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip. "Stop deducing me." Sherlock slid the hand back up John's thigh and let it rest there until he pulled it into his lap.

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, wanting to look John in the eye as he stroked him. _This is real. This is real._ John held his gaze for a few long moments but before long he was leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, reassuring him that he wanted this with his loud, steady heartbeat and quiet moans. _He knows me, and he still wants me,_ Sherlock thought. _He's throwing his life away to try and even the balance. This is real._ John's breathing became ragged, irregular, and with one more swirl of Sherlock's thumb he stopped breathing entirely for several long seconds before groaning his release against Sherlock's shirt. 

"Oh my god," John gasped. "Just give me a second and I'll ..." he waved toward Sherlock's lap. He kissed Sherlock slowly, smiling, huffing little laughs into his mouth as aftershocks jolted through him. "Mmm, that was incredible. What do you want?" he asked as he kissed him one last time. 

Sherlock's mind was overwhelmed, so he blurted it out badly. "Sex." 

John coughed his surprise. "You're being startlingly imprecise," he teased lightly, but his body grew tense. "What part of me do you want to have sex with?" he asked. Sherlock's eyes flicked to his mouth and he traced John's lips with his fingers before leaning in for another kiss. John relaxed, but didn't move. "No condoms," he protested. 

"I thought you were giving up on being a bloody doctor," Sherlock complained between kisses. John chuckled and shrugged his non-apology. Sherlock kissed up his neck, murmuring in his ear. "I could warn you," he suggested. 

John stood, pulled Sherlock up with him. Still hazy with euphoria, he tipped his head up for another kiss as he tugged at Sherlock's belt and shoved his trousers and pants down around his ankles before pushing him back into the chair. He knelt in front of Sherlock, and flicked his eyes up at him nervously. "This might not --" 

"It's alright," Sherlock purred. "I know. I'll let you know what feels ... oh god. _That._ " He bit down on his own knuckles and recited the Periodic Table in his mind. It was no use. "Stop," Sherlock panted. "Oh god, at least slow down. I wasn't prepared for you to actually be skilled." 

John held his gaze, mischief in his eyes, but did as Sherlock asked. He licked gently at him, and his eyes softened from mischief into tenderness as Sherlock's breathing steadied and John returned his mouth. They maintained eye contact, and John's eyes turned pleading after a time. "It's OK," Sherlock murmured, running his fingers through John's hair. "It's going to be OK." He rubbed at John's eyelids, erasing all traces of the extra moisture that had gathered there, and brushed his long fingers across his face. A few minutes later, he whispered a warning, and John pulled away, stroking him through his climax. 

Sherlock removed his now very sticky shirt and they returned to the couch. John rested back against Sherlock's chest, absently rubbing the long arm that had settled around him. "I don't know if what you did is forgivable to the people you hurt," Sherlock confessed. "Including me."

John's hand stilled on his arm. "OK," he prompted.

"I can't fathom ever thinking about what you did to Vincent and not being angry and horrified about it. But I think, now that you're done making excuses, I can file it away as a part of your past." He kissed the side of John's head, feeling him relax against him.

It was a long moment before John spoke. "I think that's better than forgiveness." He fingers found Sherlock's and pulled them to his mouth for a kiss. "You won't forget about that angry, scary part of me and I won't forget the part of you that is cruel and cold, and we'll call each other out when those parts try to work their way to the surface." 

Sherlock dropped a kiss to John's shoulder and nuzzled the side of his head. "At times, I think you're the genius." 

John laughed. "No you don't." 

"No, I don't," Sherlock teased. "But I fancy you all the same." 

John huffed a chuckle that turned into a yawn, and Sherlock reached behind him to pull the afghan off the back of the couch. John settled it over them and rested back against him. Sherlock rubbed soothing circles into his forearms, laid soft kisses in his hair, and felt John melt into sleep against him. He craned his head up to watch John's face for a few long moments and, seeing his features totally relaxed, Sherlock was finally able to exhale the last of his anxiety. He sunk back and let John's warm, comforting weight lull him into the first restful sleep he'd had in over a month. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! Hope you've enjoyed reading it. :)
> 
> Thanks a million to my wonderful beta, Iwantthatcoat, for helping me to tighten this up, as well as to the nonny who posted the prompt!


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